


Weeping

by SkartoArgento



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Gen, Weeper!Heart!Callista
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1458646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkartoArgento/pseuds/SkartoArgento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alone in his workshop, surrounded by weepers, Piero is hunted by his biggest mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weeping

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dishonored Halloween (2013) on Tumblr.

Callista pounds on the metal screen of his workshop.

Piero’s back feels cold against the wall. His knees are drawn up to his chest, secured tight by his arms. There’s tears crawling down one cheek. He can’t remember the last time he cried. Crying does not solve, nor create, ergo it is a wholly useless reaction. Yet he can’t stop the tears.

The coughs rip Callista’s throat. One more hollow thump, and then there’s a thud, like she’s fallen to her knees. “The swarm,” she rasps, and behind her voice is that terrible buzzing, “the plague vermin. The parasites burrowed under her skin when she was still herself. She felt them eating her flesh.”

He says nothing. He’s failed her, and the shame chokes him.

She sighs. Another thump against the metal. “The others gather in the dark places. The light hurts their eyes now.”

“I’m sorry, Callista.” His apology is small, swallowed by the Void. “I thought it would work. I thought I could s-save you. The theory wasn’t sound, but I had to, I had to _try_. For you.”

The silence burns between them.  He knows the Outsider is watching from some facet of his world, watching to see what path his ferryman will take. Piero’s fingers curl in the dust. It would be so easy to lay blame against such a being.

“You desired her so much that you tore her heart from her chest and begged to the Leviathan…” More coughs hack the air, and Piero finds himself scooting nearer the screen. His hand presses against it as a laugh follows the coughs. “Does his answer please you? By the Void, how can men be such monsters?” 

“I’m no monster. Just a… fool.”

A fly shoots past his face and lands near one of the hairline cracks in the metal. The situation is not entirely hopeless. Not yet. Corvo is still out there somewhere, cavorting at the Boyles’ party. He will be back, and a few weepers will be no match for him. Or so Piero hopes.

“Open your fortress,” Callista says, “face your mistake.”

“I can still help you!” The words tumble out, stumble over each other in their haste. “I have some of my remedy in here. Please – if you’ll just allow me to administer it – the doses, I can adjust them, find some way to reverse the effects of the plague. Callista, please, I need a little time, and then everything will be back to normal.”

The slam against his head makes him cringe away. “Which side of normal is this? The side where she loathes you for your advances and the way you leer at her? Her soul was meant for the Void, yet you dragged it back into a rotting shell for your own purpose. She _despises_ you.”

“I’m no monster,” he says again, helpless.

But what man cuts into a woman’s chest and takes out her heart? What man consorts with a bored god who invades his dreams? The Outsider had taken over his hands and head when he held Callista’s heart, whispered in his ear. And there had been no moment more intimate in his life.

Callista remains quiet, although he still feels her there. His head falls into his hands. There is another bout of coughing from a distance, out in the yard. A man. Pendleton, maybe. Or Havelock. How had this hit them all so fast?

Outside, Callista hums some long-dead tune over the rattle of insects. Inside, his head starts to hurt.

_-:-_

The first sensation, as always, is of drowning.

The Void looms, endless. He struggles to breathe in, flails his arms against an invisible current. In the distance, a dead whale bellows in agony. He pushes through the sensations and falls to his knees on a floating rock. Amazing how, even here, he needs to catch his breath.

“This is not a good time to be asleep,” he tells the rock before something dark and _huge_ swims out of the blue and buffets his little island. It is snake-like, made of water and stars, and an eye, yellow and black and bigger than the length of any whale, twitches and focuses on him. Piero grips and feels the stone under his fingers. He is tiny in its stare. So very tiny. The giant of water and stars slows as it passes. The eye stays on him.

“Pay it no mind. There are bigger and older things here.” The voice comes from behind, but he can’t break this hypnotic contact. His host sighs. “Be satisfied knowing you are the first and last mortal to look upon it. However, time is one thing that you cannot control, Piero.”

He relents at the rebuke. It pains him to tear his gaze away, but the Outsider is correct. The image of the eye stamps itself into his memory, and then he turns his back.

The Outsider hovers a few feet away. Shadows flicker around him and his black eyes see all. He folds his arms, smiles like he holds a secret. “So, my boon isn’t working out as you expected. Unfortunate.”

Piero struggles to his feet. Anger and grief crack his voice. “You knew.”

“It was one possible outcome. Another was your own death. Would you rather have that?”

“I’d rather none of this happened at all. She… she’s right, isn’t she? Whatever she is now… I am the monster in this.”

“Such an _interesting_ one.” The Outsider blinks slowly, like a reptile. “I was tempted to mark you, you know. It would be entertaining to see you compete with Corvo and Daud for my affections. But you have another path to follow. I see you dying tonight, torn apart by her hands, choked by the insects that feed off her. I see you alive ten years from now, your latest invention birthed from your fingers. It is magnificent.”

His voice trembles, though now not from anger. “Is that choice mine, or someone else’s?”

“It was always yours, Piero. Live with the guilt of what you did to her, die and transcend such matters. Either way, I will be very interested to see what you choose.” The whale flutes again. Behind the Outsider is a rune meant for someone else.

“I _was_ trying to help!” Piero bursts out. Tiny eels swim through the air over his head like a cloud of bloodgnats, but his fascination has waned considerably. “I was trying to fix things. Doesn’t that- doesn’t that count for _anything?”_

The Outsider is quiet for a moment. The shadows blaze and furl around him like flames. “There is one this certain in the world. One thing that is fair.”

“Death.”

“Death,” says the Outsider, and he smiles again. “I am sure there is someone who would appreciate the effort behind your failed attempts, but life is not merciful. Good people die young and in horrible pain. Bad people reign in luxury for decades with all manner of pleasures around them. You can make your own choices, you can influence people. But in the whole universe? You are but a drop in the ocean, Piero. An interesting drop, but a drop nonetheless.”

The insignificance is crushing. Piero looks at his hands. Such complex things. The wonders he’s made with them. That is all for nothing?

The Outsider blinks again. Saltwater sticks locks of hair to his forehead. “Don’t be too despondent. You are worth something in this immediate moment. And now I think it’s very important that you wake up. But beware, Piero.”

Piero opens his mouth - to ask a question, refute his unimportance, argue, he doesn’t know. But the waves crash down. And he is but a drop in the ocean after all.

The last sensation, as always, is of drowning.

_-:-_

He wakes, salt crystals clinging to his eyelashes. His legs are cramped and numb from sleeping in such a strange position and when he stretches them out they protest with pin pricks. So, he has a choice. Maybe the last one he will make.

“Callista?”

There’s no reply from outside. Pendleton – he’s sure it’s him this time – moans before coughing. A thick retching sound follows. Corvo has not been back, or perhaps he has surveyed the area and decided the situation is unsalvageable, has left to use his ammo and sword on more important targets.

Live or die. Piero stands and surveys his workshop. He is not a soldier, not a warrior like Corvo, but he is also not a stupid man. A barrette file sits on his workbench. Its end tapers to a sharp point. He picks it up and is surprised by its weight. He’s never noticed how heavy it is before.

Dust particles catch the light and swirl like tiny constellations. Everything in the workshop is beautiful and breathtaking and   _his._ This reaction to facing death is fascinating. If he had the time to spare, he would examine these feelings and record his findings.

Upstairs, something bangs on the metal floor. He jumps, and his hand clenches around the file. A dark shape sways from side to side through the grill.

He is not so foolish as to convince himself that Corvo came back after all.

A single breath rattles through the air, then a sigh. Footsteps tap, slow, down the steps. And under it all, that _buzzing._

She is still wearing her gloves. Red tears streak her cheeks, bead in hollow eyes when she looks at him. Her cloud of insects hovers over her skin. “Nothing is impenetrable. Not your fortress, not your skin.”

“Callista,” he says, and he feels the wall against his back, “you don’t have to do this – I understand you’re not well, but –”

She hunches over, vomits black onto the floor. The buzz grows furious.

“I- I _never_ meant to…”

Hands shoot out, grab for his face. His body twists to the side and he slips past her. The adrenaline rush, the sudden bout of dexterity, he is not used to these things. The file comes up as he goes down, his actions pivoting him onto the floor. An insect crawls over his forehead and its sting almost blinds him.

Weight settles itself on his chest and crushes him against the floor. The flies latch on his face, take their turns biting and biting and biting –

 Her tears drip on his skin. A word flashes, hot and brief in his mind: _contamination._

“Stop!”

One of the insects tickles across his lips. Callista’s groan wells from a place deep inside her chest, and her stench is a choking tangible force. A hand finds his throat. She lowers her head until their mouths brush. The touch paralyses him.

Wet slides from between her lips, and he remembers the black murk retched up from her stomach. He wants to beg, to abandon every last shred of dignity and plead with whatever sliver of human soul is left within her, but fear keeps his mouth firmly closed.  

Live or die.

He is a monster, he is a drop in the ocean, after all.

His knowledge of anatomy is unrivalled. It is no difficulty to find the heart he tainted. It is surprising, he thinks, and unfair how easily the file slips between her ribs. Blood runs over his fingers when he pulls it out, then pushes it back in. Her vacant expression does not change. He meets those red eyes and hopes that whoever is in there understands.

 _I’m sorry._ The hand tightens around his throat and his movements become frantic. _So sorry._

Black saliva trickles thick on his chin. Her blood is hot on his own chest. She makes one last sound, a whimper like a small, lost little girl, and then her body relaxes against him.

The urge to cradle her, hold her to him is so strong that he can’t find the strength to move. It would be so easy to close his eyes and let go. The insects are still biting, though, nipping and stinging. His body overrides his mind and he allows it to push Callista off and step away from her. He crushes the remaining insects on his body, feels them slough to the ground like dead skin.

He can feel the Outsider’s eyes on him. No doubt he will be folding his arms, nodding in satisfaction, saying about how _interesting_ his mortals are. How _fascinating_ they are to watch.

Piero climbs the stairs. Even that is an effort. He is not a pawn. This is not a game.

His knees creak when he sits on his bunk. A tightness clenches his throat whenever he swallows. “My choice was always mine,” he says. “But it wasn’t up to you to dictate them.”

No answer from the Void.

There are three vials of remedy under his bunk. His reserve supply. Just in case. With such proximity to a plague victim – to Callista – it is only a matter of time before the symptoms manifest. He brings the vials out, and lets his eyes run over each one. How many people has he saved with these? Not enough. Not the ones who matter.  

The insects still drone below, hover over Callista’s corpse. He wonders if the streets of Dunwall are now filled with that same sound. Is there anyone left at all?

He raises one vial to the light. The blue liquid shines and glitters. Water and stars. He stands up and drops the vial over the railing. It smashes beside Callista and spreads in a viscous puddle on the floor. He drops the other two. The contrast of red blood and blue remedy is beautiful. Maybe he will even appreciate it afterwards.

He sits back on the bunk, hands folded and back straight, and promises himself he will not sleep again. Every place seems filled with monsters, and the Void is no exception.

A cough tickles his lungs and he makes no effort to suppress it. His arm tingles. He closes his eyes, holds an image of Callista in his head. No blood running from her eyes, no swarm of insects around her. No corrupted heart. Just… perfect. Proud and perfect.

He slumps, and time slows. A breath wheezes from his mouth. There is only one thing that is fair in life.


End file.
